


Little Terrors

by runningwithdinosaurs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-18 01:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningwithdinosaurs/pseuds/runningwithdinosaurs
Summary: Things were different, after what was supposed to be the end of all things.Obviously, there were the big differences, like the Ineffable Plan being in question, the Apocalypse not happening, the Antichrist being a good kid who did his best to right things, and the fact that Heaven and Hell were convinced Crowley and Aziraphale were hybrid freaks, gone native, and unkillable.But there were little differences, too. And these were the ones that kept Crowley up at night.Aziraphale was...different. In the best ways, for sure, as the angel relaxed for the first time in six thousand years. But also in ways that set Crowley’s unnecessary heart pounding, and made his breath catch in fear.





	Little Terrors

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh. This is the first piece of fanfiction I've written in almost five years (so please be gentle). But the TV show re-sparked my love for this universe and these characters, so here we are.
> 
> The book is one of my favorites, but it has been several years since I've read it. So while nothing here contradicts the book (I don't think), it is coming more from the TV canon.

Things were different, after what was supposed to be the end of all things.

Obviously, there were the big differences, like the Ineffable Plan being in question, the Apocalypse not happening, the Antichrist being a good kid who did his best to right things, and the fact that Heaven and Hell were convinced Crowley and Aziraphale were hybrid freaks, gone native, and unkillable.

But there were little differences, too. And these were the ones that kept Crowley up at night.

Aziraphale was...different. In the best ways, for sure, as the angel relaxed for the first time in six thousand years. But also in ways that set Crowley’s unnecessary heart pounding, and made his breath catch in fear.

In all their years of knowing one another (of friendship, really, which was another difference—Aziraphale actually called them friends now), they really hadn’t touched. Crowley could literally count on one hand the number of times they’d done more than brush accidentally or shake hands solely to keep up appearances. 

They’d hugged once. Aziraphale had visited Auschwitz once the war was over and realized the horrors that had gone on that Heaven hadn’t addressed or asked him to stop. That night, he’d shown up at Crowley’s flat, already drunk, with tears streaming down his face. The questions—the _accusations_ —that came out of his mouth that night made Crowley fear the angel would Fall because of his new overwhelming doubt. So Crowley had hugged him tight, tucked him into his side, and tried to distract, to soothe, to heal. It hadn’t really worked, but Crowley had assuaged his own fears by trying.

Aziraphale had touched his knee once, too. Slapped his hand down hard and then left it there for six full seconds as he’d laughed so hard he cried. It was their first time seeing _The Importance of Being Earnest_ , on opening night. Crowley’s knee had tingled long after the hand was removed, through the end of the play, as they left the St James's Theatre, as they had tea and cake in a little hole-in-the-wall shop, and as he walked Aziraphale home to the bookshop. It had felt like the best St. Valentine’s Day gift at the time. And the next day, February 15, he’d felt like a fool and hadn’t spoken to Aziraphale for twenty-three years (and the silence was broken only because of the Spanish Flu and trying to figure out which side was responsible for it).

Post-Apocalypse, things were different. Aziraphale had started touching him more. 

A brush of the elbow here, a pat on the shoulder there. An excited hand on his arm in one memorable instance.

Crowley didn’t know what to make of it.

Oh, he knew what he _hoped_ was happening. Without Heaven and Hell breathing down their necks, on their own side, together, they were free to finally be. But what would they be?

That was a thought best left unexplored.

They’d often gone years, or even decades, without seeing one another, pre-Apocalypse. Never quite centuries, though, except for his nineteenth century nap. Crowley couldn’t stay away, and though he doubted the angel would ever admit it, neither could Aziraphale. Even after his request for holy water had been denied, they saw each other again a few years after Crowley woke up. But now, they saw each other several times a week. Lunches, dinners, plays, operas, strolls along the Thames, simply sitting in Aziraphale’s shop, not talking, but just being together in the same space: they’d done it all in the two months since Adam averted the end times.

And whereas Crowley, nine times out of ten, had been the one seeking the angel out, now Aziraphale seemed determined to return the favor. The first time he’d shown up at Crowley’s flat, bottle of port clutched in his hand and insistent look on his face, the demon had been so surprised, he’d almost shut the door in his face. The last time Aziraphale had come knocking was, well, best not to remember it.

There were other small differences (he was sitting a little nearer, drinking a little more, lingering a little longer, looking a little closer), too. Crowley knew he should be overjoyed. The angel was finally free to be himself. And what was good for Aziraphale was typically good for Crowley (and wouldn’t that thought make Hell projectile vomit). Yet, all Crowley could feel was apprehension. Unrest. Unease. A wiggling in the pit of his stomach.

“Crowley, do stop thinking about whatever it is you’re thinking about. My sofa can’t handle it.”

Crowley blinked out of his thoughts with a jolt. The spot he’d been staring at intently for who knew how long had caught on fire. “Oops, sorry, angel,” he murmured and waved the flames away.

“What’s gotten into you, anyway? It can’t be my sofa. You can’t hate tartan _that_ much.” Aziraphale said, frowning slightly at the burn mark left behind.

Crowley sighed and waved that away, as well. “Nothing has. Or everything has. I’m not sure. It’s...ineffable.”

Aziraphale sat up straight as a whip crack. “Do _not_.”

Crowley smirked. “Whatever for? Used to be one of your favorites, if I recall.”

Aziraphale had been a bit...tetchy...about the various ethereal plans since the whole hullabaloo ended, which Crowley couldn’t—and wouldn’t—blame him for. But that didn’t make reminding him of his once seemingly blind faith any less fun. Plus, it always made him turn a rather lovely shade of pink… 

Aziraphale quite visibly brushed his words off like a quick afternoon rain sprinkle and changed the subject. “What do you fancy for dinner tonight? Thai, Indian, Chinese, the Ritz?”

“You say the Ritz like it’s its own food group,” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale sniffed, “That’s because it _is_.”

“How about Indian? I could dig a nice Phall or Vindaloo.”

“You would,” Aziraphale replied. He preferred his curries sweet and milky. 

“Dishoom, then?” Crowley figured the angel would want to visit his newest favorite.

“Sounds lovely,” Aziraphale smiled openly at him, not a tight or forced expression in sight.

The snake in Crowley’s belly wiggled a little harder. 

***

What was ironic was that Crowley had been quietly pushing for this for years. He’d always been the one to stand a little closer, to sprinkle casual innuendos in their conversations, to let his gaze linger from behind his sunglasses. 

But now that his best friend was finally reciprocating after all these millennia, Crowley couldn’t help but worry.

Because Aziraphale, for all of his delightful qualities that made him just enough of a bastard to fascinate and enthrall Crowley, and even with the break from Heaven after _it_ all, was still an ethereal being of Grace and love. Hell, he was quite clearly the best of the bunch, his concern for humanity one born of actual empathy rather than duty or obligation. His heart was full of real love and compassion, not just the company line. And that was something to be cherished and protected. That was something that should remain...unsullied.

“My dear, is there something on my face?” Aziraphale touched a worried hand to his cheek, the low lighting in the restaurant washing half his face in shadow with the movement.

Crowley started. Twice in one day? Scratch that, twice in one _night_? What had gotten into him?

He didn’t apologize again, just changed the subject. “How’s your Korma?”

“Delightful, as always, of course,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t change the subject. There is clearly something on your mind. Has been for days. I’m rather shocked a neon sign hasn’t taken up residence on your forehead.”

“And I’m _rather shocked_ that you know what a neon sign is, grandpa,” Crowley shot back.

In the past, Aziraphale would have gotten quite annoyed at a reminder about his old-fashioned ways. But that was then. Now he simply rolled his eyes. “I’m wounded, really,” he deadpanned.

“My Phall is extra spicy and scrummy, thanks for asking,” Crowley drawled, still desperately attempting to derail the angel’s train of thought. “It’s actually making _my_ throat burn, which is a real feat, considering. Hey, Aziz, can we get some more na’an over here? I need _something_ to put out the fire in my mouth!” 

The owner of the restaurant, who’d been walking past their table, quirked an eyebrow. “But, Mr. Crowley, you _did_ ask me to make you cry.”

“I’ll be weeping for days,” Crowley assured him. “But for now, the na’an is my only recourse. And maybe a glass of Lassi, too.”

“Make that two!” Aziraphale piped up with a warm smile.

“We have mango, rose, and chocolate today, gentlemen,” Aziz replied.

“Mango,” Crowley decided.

“...Rose,” Aziraphale concluded slowly.

Both Aziz and Crowley stared at him. 

“What?” he bristled.

“It’s just, forgive me, Mr. Fell, but you have never turned down chocolate anything in the many times you have been in my shop,” Aziz admitted. At Azirphale’s rather put-out look, he rushed to add, “I am just surprised, that is all. The rose is very nice; my favorite actually.” And he hurried away from the table.

“Rose?” Crowley inquired with a raised brow.

“There’s nothing wrong with trying new things!” Aziraphale insisted. “Sometimes the way you’ve always done something isn’t the...it isn’t the best way,” he finished softly.

The snake in Crowley’s stomach was positively _writhing_. “Yes, well, I suppose. Tradition can be good, too. Anyway, finish your Korma, angel. Don’t want to insult the chef, do we?”

Now Aziraphale shot him an annoyed look, as if he’d _ever_ leave food on the table. “Tradition,” he said instead, tapping his fork on the side of his plate. “When have you _ever_ cared about tradition, Crowley? Really?”

Crowley scoffed, “ _Love_ tradition, me. Can’t get enough of it. All those rituals and sameness and...traditions. Splendid.”

Though no sound left his lips, Aziraphale was clearly laughing at him. Crowley knew that mirthful look in his eyes well enough. “Whatever you say, my dear.”

Crowley opened his mouth to defend his absolute _devotion_ to tradition even more (and hopefully more eloquently), but Aziz was back with the Lassi and na’an. “Check, as well when you can, Az,” he requested.

Now it was Aziz’s and Aziraphale’s turns to look at _him_. 

No dessert? No lingering? They’d become famous at the Ritz for staying so long that lunch became dinner, especially in the last two months. So the check before they were even finished eating?

“So much for tradition,” Aziraphale muttered just loud enough for Crowley to hear.

The demon simply sent him a sharp smile.

They finished off their food and drank their Lassi. Crowley paid the bill (only after he literally banished Aziraphale’s wallet back to his desk in the bookshop with a wave of his hand), and they were off, far earlier than normal.

“Well then, back to the shop for a nightcap, then?” Aziraphale asked cheerfully, hands clasped in front of his belly, as always. Crowley was convinced part of the reason Aziraphale liked Dishoom so much was because it was within walking distance of the shop and thus, he didn’t have to fear sudden and violent discorporation in Crowley’s passenger seat.

Crowley hesitated. He knew that if he said no, it would raise several flags, most of them red, for the angel. He rarely missed partaking in Aziraphale’s vast and superior liquor collection, and hadn’t turned the invitation down once since the botched end times. He’d already put the angel on alert too much that day, so even though his stomach fluttered with little terrors because he knew—he _knew_ —something was about to give, he nodded and said, “Of course. You still got that Louis XIII Magnum?”

Aziraphale gasped. “That is for _special_ occasions.”

Suitably assured he’d startled him out of noticing Crowley’s hesitation, the demon smirked, “Every day with me is a special occasion, angel.”

He was _not_ expecting the angel to murmur back with pink cheeks, “Quite.”

Those little terrors were practically clawing to get out.

***

“Here we are!” Aziraphale blustered over with the cognac and two tumblers, a pleased little smile on his face. 

Crowley cursed his big mouth. _Every day with me is a special occasion_? Seriously? He was meant to be discouraging the angel’s strange new behaviors, not encouraging them. And now Aziraphale was sharing the most prized liquor in his collection with the demon? How many times had Crowley asked for a taste? Or tried to sneak a taste? Yet Aziraphale has rebutted him every time. 

And now they were each having a glass. On a _Tuesday_.

Crowley almost refused the pour. _Almost_. After all, he was only a demon, and only so strong. The Rémy Martin was one of the only delicacies he hadn’t yet tried in his extravagant milennia on earth. So though a little voice in his head (that sounded vaguely like Aziraphale, ironically) was wailing at him that taking that first sip was going to change everything, he shrugged a little and let the liquid wash over his taste buds. Fruit, rose, leather, and floral notes exploded in his mouth all at once, and he moaned. After a long moment savoring what had to be one of the best flavors he’d ever experienced, he opened his eyes and turned to ask Aziraphale what he thought, only to find the angel staring raptly at him. Or, more accurately, at his lips. His throat. He looked...enraptured.

“How-how is it, dear boy?” Aziraphale choked. He still hadn’t touched his own glass, clutched limply in his hand. 

“It’s... _heavenly_ ,” Crowley whispered reverently, the word odd on his tongue but true just the same.

A strange rasping noise came from Aziraphale and he let the glass drop from his fingers. Crowley watched in disbelief as the amber liquid splashed onto the oriental rug below and the tumbler thumped and rolled under their shared couch. “Angel, what-”

Aziraphale launched himself across the small distance between them, and his forehead smacked into Crowley’s. “ _Angel_ , what the he-”

Undeterred, Aziraphale moved right back into his space, reached a shaking hand to cup Crowley’s cheek, leaned in, and _kissed_ him.

Crowley pushed him away. Not as fast as he should have (he let it linger for a moment or two, so sue him), but as soon as his brain caught up and his resolved fortified, he shoved the angel off of him. “ _Angel_ ,” he spat tersely, “what. the. hell.” It wasn’t a question.

Aziraphale looked...well, he looked mortified. And shocked (either at himself or at Crowley, but who was to know?). And...like his heart was breaking. His lip wobbled minutely and he blinked hard a few times, and for the first time in his miserable existence, Crowley wished the ground would open up and hell would drag him down into its fiery depths.

“I, I thought—I didn’t know _how_ to, and—your face is. I. You. Why _not_?” And now he looked...put out?

“Angel, I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” There were actual places reserved in hell for scum like him.

“Don’t— _stop_ calling me that, I need to think, I need to—” Aziraphale cut himself off and fixed Crowley with a frightfully bare look. “Why _not_?” he repeated.

“You’re an angel, I’m a demon. I don’t—I don’t think about you...in that way.” Aziraphale’s face crumpled, and Crowley’s little terrors were burning up his insides. “You’re my best friend, and I care for you a great deal, but...we can’t. I can’t. _I won’t._ ”

Aziraphale wouldn’t look at him. Crowley was fine with that. He didn’t think he’d be able to say these next words with the angel’s beloved eyes boring into him. “I think it best we don’t see each other for a while,” he paused, and with a deep breath, forged on. “Forget about this, angel. Forget about me...in that way. Things are good as they are.” 

And he got up, and he left.

***

The thing is, Crowley had always pushed a little more, leaned a little closer, tempted too intently, and gone out of his way for the angel. So this was entirely his fault. He’d flirted with Aziraphale for six thousand years, so what had he expected, really?

One thing was for certain: he’d never expected reciprocation. 

Their story always went the same way...Crowley pushed, Aziraphale retreated, and they went on with their immortal lives. Crowley was secure with the knowledge that his deep love for the angel was unrequited. Oh sure, Aziraphale _loved_ him, but in the general way he loved all of Her creations. Or in the way one loved a dear friend, even. Not in the way Crowley loved him. 

Not so deeply that it felt like a living, breathing thing in his chest, a chest that didn’t need to live or breathe. Not so desperately that he had to physically force himself to stay away, so as to remain cool and unobvious. Not so dearly that he’d literally do _anything_ for the angel, including sacrifice his own life. 

Aziraphale’s refusal to go with him to Alpha Centauri had both hurt him, and also reassured him. Nothing had changed. None of those moments over the last several years, from a church during WWII to raising Warlock together, had changed Aziraphale’s platonic affection for him. 

Crowley was a selfish, deplorable demon. With one hand, he beckoned Aziraphale closer, knowing it would never happen, and with the other, he prayed for it not to. He couldn’t help how he treated Aziraphale, how he couldn’t leave him alone. This all would have been so much simpler if he’d just stopped seeing the angel except on business. Or just foregone the Arrangement all together. But he was selfish. And weak. And in love.

And he was sure that Aziraphale would Fall if they were ever anything more than friends. If they kissed, fucked, _loved_...surely, Aziraphale would Fall. Crowley Fell for asking questions, and for hanging around the wrong people before the start of the Morning Star’s rebellion. He’d been a good angel...nosy, a little mouthy, certainly not perfect by any means, but...good. There was a reason his demonic deeds had more to do with the M25 and less to do with ruining people’s lives. 

So if Crowley Fell for that, what would happen to Aziraphale if he was in love with a demon? If he slept with a demon? If he...worshiped a demon? 

Crowley worshiped Aziraphale, after all.

Crowley slumped forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his hands tangled in his hair. _Why_ had the angel had to upset the status quo that’d worked for them for six thousand years? Crowley pined, Aziraphale was oblivious, and they went merrily along. If the blasted Apocalypse—

_Oh_. 

Of course. The almost end of the world. Put things in perspective, didn’t it? Aziraphale had only been standing closer, showing up unannounced, and touching him consistently since Adam refused to kick-start the end times.

The words “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” had always haunted him. But what if...it hadn’t been an outright rejection as Crowley always thought? What if it had been a...promise for later? A promise that Aziraphale would eventually catch up to where Crowley already was, and had been for thousands of years? A promise that Crowley was loved in return?

Oh _shit_.

Aziraphale, the best being in the cosmos, was going to Fall. And it was all because of Crowley.

Crowley forced himself off the couch and into his bedroom. The situation seemed to call for a nap. A century or two should do. Hopefully, in that time Aziraphale will have gotten over whatever madness had overcome him, and he would be safe, and angelic, and decidedly not Fallen. And much better off without Crowley. 

***

Crowley had only been asleep for a little over four days when something, quite literally, smacked him in the face.

Crowley blinked blearily. It’d been a hand. And the hand was attached to Aziraphale.

Azirapahle, who was glaring down at Crowley hotly.

“Explain yourself,” the angel demanded, looming over the bleary demon. 

“Angel, what—how’d you get in here?” Crowley shifted in the bed and pulled the covers more tightly around himself, like some sort of Victorian damsel in distress.

“Explain. Yourself.” The angel’s voice was flinty as steel and his eyes were in shadow. Crowley had never regretted purposefully buying the flat with extra shadow more.

“About _what_? Really, angel, you know better than to bother me when I’m asleep. Remember the Russian Revolution? ‘Let sleeping demons lie’ and all that.”

“I shan’t say it again,” Aziraphale replied and left the room.

Crowley gaped at the empty doorway. What had gotten into _him_? The demon had half a mind to stay in bed, and nuts to Aziraphale’s vagueness.

But six thousand years of loyalty and quiet care had him stumbling out of bed and into his lounge. Aziraphale sat primly on the sofa, back to Crowley.

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley was probably the only being in creation who’d notice the minute tensing of the angel’s shoulders. “Crowley,” Aziraphale returned with little inflection.

Crowley rounded the sofa (which he’d only purchased after Aziraphale had started turning up more frequently, as his angel was a creature of comfort) and sat down on the coffee table, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled, and eyes looking just past Aziraphale’s left shoulder. “What’s this about, angel?”

“I _told_ you to stop calling me that!” Aziraphale snapped, and suddenly it all came rushing back to him. The kiss, the rejection, his request… “I should think it is quite obvious why I am here. I want you to explain yourself.”

The only choice Crowley saw for himself was to be difficult. “Explain what? Why the sky is blue? Why turtles live so long? Why Tom Holland is such a national treasure? You’ll have to be _specific_ , an—Aziraphale.”

He could feel the angel’s gaze boring into him. “Crowley.” A pause. “Crowley, please,” his breath hitched the tiniest bit.

Crowley had always been the biggest pushover to ever push. He dragged his eyes to Aziraphale’s, and what he saw there would have punched the air from his lungs if he’d chosen to breathe at that moment. They were shiny, clearly a second from tears (and having already shed many, if the redness around them was any indication), and they were so dull, so...lifeless. Quite the opposite of how they should look.

Crowley had failed him.

“Oh, angel,” he murmured. At Aziraphale’s sharp look, he said, “I’ve called you that for millennia, I’m not stopping now. But you’re right. I do owe you an explanation.”

Aziraphale looked surprised at his acquiescence. “Quite right,” he said, regardless. 

“I...I’ve led you on. I regret it. But it’s the truth. I’m s-sorry,” he choked on the word, as it was not one he used often.

Aziraphale regarded him for a moment, and then said, with complete calm, “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“What?”

“Crowley, I have known you almost as long as creation has existed. This has allowed me to get to know you quite well, whether you realize it or not. I know when you are lying.”

“Bit full of yourself, aren’t you?” Crowley snapped, his natural defense being meanness. “I’ve _obviously_ got to be lying about not loving you, right?”

The demon expected Aziraphale to sputter and tell him that pride was a sin, but instead, he...smirked? It was a look that simultaneously should never be seen on the angel again, and also was the hottest thing Crowley had seen to date. The spark was back in his eyes. “I never said anything about love, dear boy.”

Crowley stomach plummeted. “So what, it was just _lust_ then? Who even are you?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “ _No_ , Crowley. What I meant is that _I_ never brought up love before you rejected me. You did that all on your own, just now. Why is love on your mind, my dear?”

Crowley was speechless. Which, frankly, had never happened to him before. He gaped at the angel, whose smirk grew wider and slowly morphed into a soft smile.

“I said something several years ago that I feel I need to clarify,” Aziraphale began, shifting just the tiniest bit forward, closer to Crowley still perched on the coffee table. “You go too fast for me,” he murmured, and Crowley’s non-beating heart clenched. “I took your meaning at that time to be that you perhaps wanted to take our friendship...to the logical next step. I wanted to say _yes_ , go back to my bookshop with you and—it doesn’t matter now. But I knew then that the time wasn’t right. That it might never be right. But now...I don’t care anymore. If the time is wrong, so be it. The world almost ended. We were almost separated from each other forever. And even when it would have been so much easier for you to leave me behind—Lord, I was so stubborn—you stayed and kept asking me to go with you and then not leaving even when you threatened to. When you should have. I always forsake you, and you always come back to me. I am the luckiest and also the most undeserving angel in existence. What have I done to earn such loyalty, truly? But I have it, and I know now that I am too selfish to ever give it up again. You, my dear, are more important to me than Heaven and Earth combined. I lov—”

“ _NO_!” Crowley thundered, leaping to his feet. “ _DON’T SAY IT_!”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to be speechless. Crowley stalked to the other side of the room and ran his fingers through his hair, back to the angel. Finally, Aziraphale gathered himself to ask, “Why not? It’s the truth. Do you...truly not care for me? Have I been...am I _wrong_?”

Crowley took a deep, unnecessary breath, and turned back around. He knew what he should say. He should stay the party line, keep repeating the same lie, beat the same dead horse, and maybe Aziraphale would eventually believe it. But, damn him, the angel deserved the truth.

“You aren’t wrong.”

“Then why?”

“Angel,” Crowley took a halting step forward and stopped. “I’m just a demon. You’re...you’re a _miracle_. I can’t risk that.”

“What?”

“Aren’t you afraid of what will happen if we finally acknowledge this, and Go— Sata— eeugh _someone_ forbid, actually do something about it? I only asked questions. But being with a demon, loving a demon...that’s so much worse.”

Aziraphale stood and moved a little closer to him. “What are you suggesting?”

Crowley sighed and looked directly into his eyes. “Angel, you’ll _Fall_.”

Aziraphale blinked, and took a step back. “W-what?”

“I’m pretty sure lust would do it. It’s one of the seven, after all. Even beyond that, even if it’s not physical, even loving me is too much of a risk. I am _Fallen_. I rebelled against Heaven. God Herself has forsaken me. I will be _your_ downfall. And I’m just not worth it.”

“If loving you was a Fallable offense, I would have Fallen thousands of years ago.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “You…for that long?”

“I’ve loved you since we started the Arrangement. I couldn’t believe a demon was willing to do good. And I know you were getting something in return, but still. I started to really _see_ you. And I liked—loved—what I saw. And in 1941, I realized you loved me, too.”

“And I _still_ went too fast for you?” Crowley couldn’t help but say.

“I’ve explained that. I was still worried about Heaven and my duty and the other angels. I was worried about what Hell may do to _you_. But now they know they can't harm us. We’re on our own side. And I don’t care what Heaven thinks.”

“Well, you _should_! How do we know that it’s not the reciprocation, the acknowledgment, that could harm you?” Crowley stalked closer, suddenly furious. “I don’t know what you want from me, but if it’s physical, too, _that_ will definitely be enough.”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale didn’t look sad or concerned, he looked _fond_. “I would very much like to be closer to you in every way possible. But it wouldn’t be lustful. It would be loving. Would I Fall for loving you that much?”

All of Crowley’s arguments were being shot down. “Maybe. I’m a _demon_.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

“I won’t let you!”

“Cute that you think you have any say over anything I do or don’t do.”

“If I’m to be your... _partner_ in this, then yes, I do have a say! Big fan of consent, me.” 

Aziraphale sighed. “You’re right, of course. We must make these decisions together. I just wish you’d _trust_ me.”

Crowley was affronted. “I do trust you. With my life.”

“Then act like it!” Aziraphale snapped. “Trust me to make up my own damn mind. Trust me to know what I want!”

“I just…” Crowley trailed off and walked past Aziraphale back to the couch, which he sunk onto and put his head in his hands. “I never thought I’d actually get this.”

Aziraphale sat down next to him, a healthy foot away. “Is it so odd that I return your devotion?” he asked.

One yellow eye peeked out at the angel. “Honestly, yes.”

Aziraphale looked surprised. “Really?”

“Yes, angel, really!” Crowley sat up and turned to him. “You’re the one always reminding me of our differences, always saying we aren’t friends, never seeking me out. _You go too fast for me, Crowley_ ,” he parroted. “From the outside looking in, I’m a lovesick fool. I never left well enough alone.”

“I didn’t want you to!” Aziraphale cried. “Every time you enter a room, Crowley, a heavenly warmth fills me.”

Crowley snorted. 

“Seriously!” Aziraphale insisted. “Say what you want about Heaven, and She knows that I don’t think it’s perfect any longer, but it is made up of love and light and holiness. That is what you make me feel.”

Crowley stared at him. He could sit here, arguing all of the reasons why _them_ was a bad idea until he was blue in the face. But then again, weren’t bad ideas his specialty, really? And hadn’t he been waiting for this for, well, forever?

This angel, this being...he simply was the beginning and the end of Crowley. He was a good bottle of Scotch. He was the leather in the Bentley. He was his plants, vibrant and green. He was everything. And he was finally offering the demon what he’d most wanted and most feared for the whole of his existence.

Was it wise doubting any longer? 

Was it worth the temptation?

With an undisguisable tremble, Crowley reached out and gently brushed Aziraphale’s cheek with his knuckles. If he had any lingering doubts (and he did; buckets of them strewn all about in his head and stomach...none about his feelings, but all worried about the angel’s fate), the way Aziraphale obviously leaned into his touch and closed his eyes seemingly involuntarily quieted them for the moment. 

He knew they were of celestial and occult origins, and thus not human (no matter how fond they’d both grown of their current corporations and humanity as a whole), but there was only one action that made sense to Crowley in that moment. With the smallest of smiles, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s.

The angel gasped and squeezed his eyes even more tightly closed. After a few moments of pure bliss, Crowley pulled back. He raised an amused brow at Aziraphale’s clenched lids. “You can open your eyes now.”

“I shan’t,” Aziraphale said stubbornly, and then more quietly. “I’m afraid if I do, I will see that this has all been a dream.”

“Oh, _angel_ ,” Crowley brushed away a few stray white curls. “I love you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flew open, only to see a widely grinning Crowley.

“Knew that’d work,” the demon bragged.

“Did you mean it?” Aziraphale asked.

“I should hope so!” Crowley slumped into the couch, threw his arms over the back, spread his legs, and beamed. “If not, we’ve certainly had our wires crossed these last ten minutes.”

“Oh, you… you...,” Aziraphale blustered.

“ _Demon_ ,” Crowley said cheerfully. “S’what you signed up for, angel. Best get used to it.”

“I _am_ used to it,” Aziraphale responded. “I’m just not sure if that’s better or worse.”

“We know each other too well, angel. Starting this whole thing off with no mystery left. A pity, reall—oomph!”

Aziraphale had leaned forward, braced his hand on Crowley’s knee, and cut him off with a kiss. A little wet, a little amateurish, but the only adjective Crowley could use to describe it was... _heavenly_.

He broke away, panting heavily, and grinned wickedly. “I stand corrected. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale nodded primly. “Quite.” And he hauled himself into Crowley’s lap.

Crowley’s delighted laughter echoed through the flat, and soon enough, Aziraphale’s joined it.

***

A week later, they sat at their usual table at Dishoom, drinking their pineapple ginger Lassi (and didn’t Crowley find this ‘try new things’ side of Aziraphale simply _delightful_ ), and eating their usual curries (though all the intent in the world wouldn’t get the angel to eat spicy food). What was unusual (but was quickly becoming usual) were the gently clasped hands alongside their plates, Crowley’s thumb unconsciously stroking along the back of Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziz had been beaming proudly at them from the moment they walked in and he spied Crowley’s hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back, guiding him. He’d taken one look at their hands and declared, “Tonight’s dinner is on me, for my friends finally getting their acts together.”

Crowley had opened his mouth to complain at him for the statement, but Aziraphale squeezed his hand and simply said, “Thank you, my friend.”

They lingered over their dessert, hands safely back on their own sides of the table, Aziraphale scooping the last of his Kheer into his mouth and Crowley watching him eat, a small smile tugging at his lips. Crowley rapped the table with his knuckles and said, “Eventually, we’re going to have to talk everything out, you know.”

“Haven’t we already?”

“Six thousand years of repressed feelings does not one evening of confessions make.”

“Yes, well, we have time to talk about it, you’ll find, my dear,” Aziraphale dabbed his mouth with his napkin and then winked at the demon.

Crowley grinned. “All the time in the world, angel. All the time in the world.”

Indeed, they had time enough to figure everything out. To sort through their past, their present, their future. To understand fully their desires and feelings. To bear witness to each other. To look at their world, and what it could become, and the very real danger that might exist.

But in that moment, at that place, all they could see was each other.

So in the end, nothing much was different at all, really.

**Author's Note:**

> So there we are. I'm tempted to write a smutty sequel where they talk things out a bit more and "get close to each other," as Aziraphale would put it. What do ya'll think? 
> 
> Come find me [here](https://runwiththisdinosaur.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, where I basically cry about these two and David Tennant.


End file.
